


A for Alarm

by sweetly_disposed



Series: Alphabetical [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Accident Prone Harry, Alternate Universe - College/University, Artist Harry, Fluff, M/M, Students
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-09
Updated: 2015-06-09
Packaged: 2018-04-03 16:22:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4107343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetly_disposed/pseuds/sweetly_disposed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by the prompt: 'we live next door to each other and you keep burning your fucking toast and evacuating the whole building.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	A for Alarm

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Alarm](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8859595) by [Rosa_Mystica](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosa_Mystica/pseuds/Rosa_Mystica)



The first time it happens, it's quarter past three in the morning, and Louis is tired.

No, scrap that. He's not just tired. He's _exhausted_.

It's been a long day of studying for his final exams, and his evening shift at the bar in the club _dragged_. Right now, the prospect of collapsing into bed and getting hours and hours of blissful rest sounds like absolute heaven to him, and ever leaving it seems impossible. He might even skip his lectures tomorrow morning and just beg Niall for his notes.

He's just on the brink of sleep, limbs already heavy. All of a sudden, a screaming, ear piercing noise echoes around his flat, shattering the quiet like a boulder being thrown at a sheet of glass. Louis startles out of his near-sleep, body jerking as his heart leaps in his chest.

It's the fucking fire alarm.

Louis' first thought is not to run, it is not to bolt from his bed and find out what's happening, no. Rather, it is to find out whoever it was that set the alarm off, and tear them limb from limb. No, Louis is not joking. There will be no mercy.

He groans loudly, though his protest is lost under the screech of the alarm, and flops an arm out of the side of the duvet. That's it. That's all the energy he has. He resigns himself to he knowledge that the firemen will find his charred remains still here in his bed, one arm still pathetically thrown out to the side. Even with his impending doom fast approaching with the blare of the alarm, Louis considers just staying where he is. He has always been a drama queen at heart. "Louis Tomlinson," people will say, "the boy who just wanted to sleep."

His mother will probably cry, though. Louis hates it when she cries, so he takes a breath, counts to three, and then heaves himself up off the bed. He mutters murderous thoughts to himself as he finds his wallet and keys (he doesn't know why he's taking his keys; there might not be a flat to come back to) and stuffs his feet into his old Vans, before slamming the door behind him.

Yawning, his makes his way down the three flights of stairs to the bottom floor of the building, letting the rush of the other people in the building carry him out. They all congregate a little way from the building, turning to face it and expecting to see billowing black smoke and flames licking at the walls.

Instead, there is nothing.

The air around them is quiet and still. The apartment building stands, solid and steady, as it always has. They all stand, confused, blinking up at the building. Louis quirks an eyebrow, unimpressed. He doesn't think the others quite understand the gravity of the situation. There is nothing happening, and right now, Louis could be asleep. He demands to know who is responsible for this.

In the distance, there is the faint wail of sirens, heralding the coming of the fire engines. There's a direct link to the emergency services if the alarms in the building go off because it's owned by the university, but this is the first time they've actually had to come out. Around him, a few people have sprawled out on the grass, already chatting, seemingly unbothered by the fact that's its half three in the morning and Louis is _tired_. He huffs.

The fire engine pulls up, the doors flying open and firemen emerging in full gear. It takes them a minute to look up at the building and see that it is decidedly not on fire. They go in anyway, hoses poised. Louis shuffles a little closer to the truck because hey, if he can't get back to his bed he may as well as amuse himself by ogling the guys in uniform.

Ten minutes later, the firemen emerge, shaking their heads and shrugging. The guys stationed outside begin packing up their equipment, and Louis hears a couple of comments that sound like 'bloody students'. He rolls his eyes.

A few more firemen leave the building. Last, trailing behind, there is one more boy. He looks like he's getting a bollocking from one of the firemen, his head hung low as he nods sheepishly. Louis recognises him. His name is Henry or Harry or something, he lives the floor below Louis. Louis is pretty sure he's an art student; he's often seeing him lug sketchbooks and big plastic folders in and out of the building. They've not spoken before, but Louis is sure he lives alone like Louis does.

It's when he sidles closer to him and the fireman, trying to eavesdrop on the conversation, when he sees it. The bit of burnt-black toast in Henry/Harry's hand. Suddenly, everything makes sense; the lack of fire, the burnt toast, the ashamed expression on the boy's face. Everything adds up.

Surprisingly, some of Louis' anger actually evaporates. The boy actually looks pretty sweet, all big eyed and apologetic to the firemen as they climb back in their truck and drive off. He's left standing there, black toast in his hand, biting his lip at the congregation of people a little way off.

Louis sees his opportunity. He takes a couple of steps out of his hiding place and comes to stand next to the boy, bouncing a little on his toes. He clears his throat, and Henry/Harry glances at him.

"I'd get rid of that if I were you," Louis says, nodding his head at the toast. "They're gonna be angry enough when they find out it's a false alarm without knowing it was you that caused it."

The boy looks down at his hand, and nods a little shakily. "Right," he nods. "Okay. How?"

Louis sighs and reaches for the toast. It must be the exhaustion getting to him, because when his fingers brush the boys' a sharp shock of electricity zaps his fingers. Choosing to ignore it, he grabs the toast and flings it into a nearby bush. "There. Sorted."

The boy nods. "I'm so sorry. I don't know what happened- I was sketching and then I was hungry..." Louis watches his Adam's apple bob as he swallows. "I could have killed us all."

Louis lifts an eyebrow, shrugs one shoulder. "Well, I for one am glad you didn't. I have lectures tomorrow, you know, and I'm not sure they'd appreciate it if I turned up dead."

Henry/Harry looks across at him, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I'm really sorry."

Louis bites the bullet, thrusting out his right hand. "I'm Louis. I believe I live above you."

The boy takes it. "Hi," he says. "I'm Harry."

*****

The second time it happens, Louis is midway through his psychology revision, and it's half past twelve in the afternoon. He's just made himself a tea and settled down with his notes, when the blast of the alarm screams at him from the ceiling.

This time, as he makes his way down the stairs with all the other students, some in their pyjamas from a clearly heavy night last night, he can smell it. The acrid smell of burst toast that emanates from the flat below his. This time Louis can't help the smile that pulls at his mouth, and it's still there when the firemen turn up again.

He watches Harry get told off again, trying to hold his smile back. Harry catches him and Louis quickly looks away, clasping hands behind his back and taking a sudden interest in a nearby tree. The students around them have caught on, and there are some pissed off looks being shot Harry's way. When the firemen have gone, Harry stands by the doors of the building, apologising profusely to everyone that files past him back inside. Louis hangs back at the end of the line, stopping in front of Harry when he gets to him.

He tuts, shaking his head. "I think you need to take some cooking courses, mate. I mean, I'm not a genius in the kitchen, but making toast isn't that hard."

Harry shakes his head, still looking ashamed of himself, "It's not my fault! There's something wrong with my toaster! My sister bought it for me as a moving in present and both times I've tried to use it-"

"You've nearly burnt the building down, I get it. Think the solution might be to get a new toaster then."

Harry hums an agreement. "I was only trying to make lunch. Don't think I'm hungry anymore."

Louis bites his lip. He has fresh cuppa upstairs, and his revision is calling his name; he has an exam in two days. He should go back upstairs and leave Harry to it.

But, then again, he is kinda hungry too.

"We could go and get something? To eat, I mean," he offers.

Harry looks at him curiously. "Like a date?" He slaps a hand to his forehead then, groaning. "God, sorry, I don't know why I said that. We don't even know each other, why would it be a date? Shit, sorry, sometimes I just don't think before I open my mouth."

Louis laughs, unable to help himself. "It's fine, it's probably the shock talking." Harry nods gratefully, cheeks pink. "Come on then," Louis says, taking a couple of steps away, looking over his shoulder to make sure Harry is following him. "I know a little place just outside the uni."

Harry falls into step beside him. He glances at Louis, tugging his bottom lip into his mouth.

Louis leads him into the little cafe and finds them a table by the window. They order sandwiches and tea and eat together. Louis learns that Harry's last name is Styles, he's in his second of uni like Louis, and he is indeed doing an art degree. He learns he has problems sleeping, hence his habits of sketching and burning toast in the middle of the night. He learns his sister has a habit of buying him temperamental objects; the toaster is the next in a long line of many.

Louis tells him about his psychology course, about the statistics he has to remember, the lecturers that push him for essays and experiments and results and how sometimes it all feels like too much. He jokes that he's going to jack it all in and go and audition for the XFactor to see if he can get anywhere with it.

Harry takes a sip of his tea, sets the mug down and says, completely seriously, "Well, why don't you?"

"Because," Louis replies, "That's mad, it's not realistic."

Harry shrugs earnestly. "Well it's not impossible."

Louis just looks at him, takes in his wavy shoulder length hair, his blue and red patterned shirt with the top three buttons undone, the smudge what looks like green chalk across his cheekbone that he doesn't seem to have noticed. Something weird flips in his stomach.

"No," he says thoughtfully. "Perhaps it's not."

*****

The third time it happens, Louis is woken from sleep. He startles awake, jerking upright as he looks around the room he's in. After a moment the colour of the walls becomes less unfamiliar, the stacks of canvases propped up against the wall identify where he is. On the sheets next to him there is a sketchpad, and Louis can make out a half finished sketch of his sleeping face. Despite the noise, he smiles faintly.

He groans then, picks up Harry's pillow and shoves it over his face, trying to muffle the noise.

"Harry!" he yells, "What the fuck are you doing?!"

Harry calls back from the kitchen, but over the alarm and the pillow over his face, Louis can't hear what he says.

Later, when they're stood outside getting death glares from the rest of the tenants and the firemen, Louis sighs.

"I was trying to make you breakfast in bed," Harry says, sounding upset. "It was meant to be a surprise."

"Well I was certainly surprised," Louis mutters, trying not to sound too grumpy. He wraps an arm around Harry's waist and presses a kiss to his cheek. "Thanks for the thought, though, love."

Harry manages half a smile. "You're welcome."

"Now, I, uh-" Louis says under his breath, "I think we should disappear for a couple of hours...let this lot calm down."

"Good idea," Harry murmurs back. Hand in hand, they scarper.

*****

Eight months later, Harry turns the key in the door to their new flat, pushing the door open with a flourish.

"Ta da!" He says, arms spread, and Louis snorts, shoving him inside.

He's nervous about this, he's not gonna lie; he's never lived with a boyfriend before. He thinks that the students in their last place must be glad to see the back of them. They set to work putting Harry's easels up, getting the light right by the large window so it's perfect for him to work in. By the time all their photos are up, plus the 'Good Luck in your new home!' cards their mums have sent them, it's beginning to look homely already. And anyway, Louis thinks, he loves Harry. Harry loves him. Really, that's all they need.

Harry's sister has sent them a kettle as a housewarming gift. It's bright green and fairly monstrous, but Harry loves it. It's the first thing he unpacks, and it seems to hold up when he makes them tea and they sit together in the window seat, looking out over the city.

This is good, Louis thinks. Harry's got an art show coming up (he's showing a couple of portraits of Louis, but Louis doesn't want to think about that too much), and a few important people with good connections are coming to view it. Louis himself has finished his degree, and he's still working at the club, but if he's honest, he's not sure what to do next.

It's when he comes home after work a couple of nights later to find Harry sketching by the window innocently that things change. On the kitchen by the kettle there's an application form for the XFactor. Louis looks through it, one eyebrow raised, shaking his head slowly. It's all filled in, apart from his signature on the last page.

He hears Harry approach, feels him wind his arms around his waist. He turns, accepting the kiss Harry presses to his mouth.

"What's that?" Louis asks, gesturing to the form.

Harry just shrugs. "It's up to you, but I know you can do it," is all he says, before letting Louis go and heading back to his paints.

Louis bites his lip. He thinks all the while the kettle boils, and when it clicks off, he's made his decision.

He signs his name at the bottom of the form. New beginnings, he thinks.

They start with a new toaster.


End file.
